After the Disciple
by domino1957
Summary: So why did Kitty really leave Dodge City? The only plausible explanation.


After _The Disciple_

_Author's Note:_

The TV movie_ Return to Dodge_ gave Gunsmoke fans a ridiculous _ex post facto_ explanation as to why Kitty left Dodge City the year before the series ended. What were the writers thinking – that none of us had ever seen the show? After careful consideration, the following is the only reason I could come up with as to why she really left.

This story picks up at the end of _The Disciple_.

The saloon was empty. It was late. She sat alone, totaling the evening's receipts, engrossed in her work yet not really caring at the same time. It had to be done; she was doing it. Night after night, she had done the same task and night after night, she listened for a familiar step on the boardwalk. Night after night, she didn't hear it.

At first, she started at every sound, hoping, maybe even praying, but every sound had not been the right sound and she'd given up hope, stopped murmuring prayers. And yet something kept her. Alone. Late. Every night.

She entered the last numbers and closed the ledger. She stood, smoothed her skirt and replaced her chair, turned around and he was there.

Hand on one batwing door, the man pushed it open slightly. "Hello, Kitty," he said. After agonizing over what to say, the words seemed inadequate. He stood looking at her, his relief and pleasure at finding her alone evident on his face.

She was startled and stood rooted to the floor before walking swiftly to him. "Oh, Matt," she said in a choked voice, relieved that he had returned, still angry that he had gone.

Awkwardly, he shouldered his way into the saloon, taking care not to bang his wounded arm on the door. He was worn and tired; she could see it in every line of his body. Gently taking his good left hand, she led him to a table and a chair. "How 'bout a drink?" she asked. She headed for the bar before he could even answer her. He settled in the chair, wincing slightly at twinges in his arm. With his left hand, he tipped his hat to the back of his head and then waited while she poured the glass. He reached for it and drank it down. She watched every move. A little slow. Deliberate. She started to pour him another but he shook his head.

"No, no more for me, Kitty." He fingered the sling on his right arm and eased it off a sore spot on his shoulder.

"You look like you could use some sleep," she said matter-of-factly, determined not to ask, not to mother.

He nodded. "It was a long ride." He braced his free hand on the table and stood up. "I'll be staying at the Dodge house. See you in the morning." He resettled his hat and disappeared before she could even offer a bed at the Long Branch.

"Good night," she said to his retreating back. She replaced the bottle and closed the inside doors to the saloon. The ledger went upstairs with her. She carried the lamp upstairs with her as well, not quite as alone as she had been for the past long nights.

Dillon was up early. His morning shave was a painstakingly slow process with his left hand but he had finished when the knocks on the door announced his first visitors. Wiping traces of lather from his neck and face, he opened the door to find the woman and the doctor. The old man was not empty-handed.

"Kitty told me you were back," said Adams in a brisk voice that barely covered his relief. "I'm glad you didn't come knockin' on my door at some ungodly hour. I might have shot you in the other arm."

"Is that so?" said Dillon with a smile. "I'm glad to see you, too, Doc. I don't suppose you're here to take me to breakfast?"

"Sure. I'll buy you breakfast…" agreed Adams. "After you let me look at your arm." Dillon rolled his eyes at Kitty but obediently took a seat next to a small table by the window. "I did a fine piece of work sewing it back together and then you ride off without so much as a by-your-leave--" he had been examining Dillon's right hand and fingers. "--Can you move your fingers?" He could and did. The fingers moved with different degrees of mobility. "Squeeze my hand," ordered Adams. His own hand, wrinkled with age but still supple disappeared in the weathered grip of his patient. Dillon's grip was slight but it was a grip. Adams nodded. "Good." He put on his glasses and began to remove bandages. Dillon focused on the old man's face, wincing now and then if the hands were too rough. "Looks clean," grumbled Adams to himself. "Stitches are mostly in place - some need to come out - these here - they been pulled-"

"-A young fella I met helped me out-" Dillon winced again at the doctor's touch.

The old man ignored him. "Oh, for heaven's sake, sit still!" He glared at Dillon. Before I buy you breakfast, you're coming to the office so I can clean and rebandage this." He turned to the woman. "Kitty, why don't you meet us at Delmonico's in about an hour and I'll buy you both breakfast?"

She gasped in mock surprise at the old man's generosity as though it were a rarity. "You've made a date. See you both later." She smiled at Dillon who nodded back at her but he was distracted from answering her by Adams who as replacing the sling around his arm. She left them alone and disappeared down the hall.

The two men made their way quietly up the street. Dillon was greeted warmly by the few townspeople who were out and about. His answers to their questions were fairly consistent. He was on the mend and no, he wasn't sure when he'd resume his duties, thanks for asking. "You might as well get used to it, you know," remarked Adams, ushering him into his office. "They all like Newly enough," he continued not mentioning how anyone felt about Dillon's replacement. "But you've been the only law for a long time. People don't like that kind of change." People also don't like the new marshal, he thought to himself.

Dillon sat in the chair and carefully removed the sling. Adams helped him with his shirt and then gathered water, towels and bandages. He unwrapped the wounded arm again and picked up a bottle of alcohol. Dillon watched with some apprehension. "I need some answers, Doc," he said, hoping to distract the doctor for a few minutes. "Before I make any real decisions. I can't do this job and rely on others to protect me. I can't protect this town if I can't protect myself. How long is this gonna take?"

Adams, somewhat absorbed in his preparations, waited a long minute and then shook his head. "Matt, that shotgun did a lot of damage. There's also your age. You've got movement of your hand and all your fingers. The elbow is intact. It's healing - you can probably stop wearing the sling in four or five days. Will you be as fast with a gun as you were before? I can't say. It's going to take time and a lot of work and something you don't always allow yourself - patience - " he picked up the bottle of alcohol. " - Now this may sting - " he warned. Slowly he poured the alcohol over the wounded arm.

Dillon drew his breath in sharply, closed his eyes and let it out slowly. Sting a little? Who was the old man kidding? Adams carefully cleaned the wounds with some gauze. "O-o-w-w, Doc!" he said through clenched teeth. "That hurts!"

"Oh, be still," he answered, concentrating on his job of removing stitches. "Told you so - there, the hard part's done."

Blinking back tears, Dillon relaxed a little and then watched as Adams re-wrapped his arm. While the marshal regained some of his color, Adams cleaned up the mess they had made. "Tell me about that young man who helped you. He might have the makings of a fine doctor."

Dillon smiled. "His name was Lem. He was an Army deserter. To hear him talk, there wasn't much he couldn't do and by golly, he was right - "

"-A deserter?" interrupted Adams, refastening the sling around Dillon's neck.

"Doc," said Dillon, "he was one of the fastest men with a gun I've ever seen…but he didn't believe in killing…Even in self-defense. He ran away from the Army because they attacked a camp of unarmed Indians."

"And you two just wandered into one another out there in the middle of no where?" asked Adams dryly.

Dillon explained that Lem was about to be taken by a bounty hunter who thought he'd be less trouble dead than alive. In disabusing the bounty hunter of that notion, Dillon had re-injured his arm. "Lem figured he owed me, so he fixed me up with a poultice and later helped save us both when the men who shot me found us."

"I see," said Adams. "He sounds like a remarkable fellow. Where is he now?"

"The guardhouse at Fort Hayes, I imagine. He's back to serve whatever time the Army gives him and he's sworn he won't carry a gun. In trying to talk to him about choice and responsibility, I figured out a few things of my own. I hope I haven't gotten him killed." He stood up carefully. "I hope I don't get anyone killed here, either." He headed for the door. "Come on. Kitty's waiting and you're buying, remember?"

Adams wiped his mustache and grabbed his coat and hat. "Take it easy on those stairs," he growled. "You can't afford a broken leg, too."

Breakfast at Delmonico's was one interruption after another from well-wishers until, to Matt and Kitty's embarrassment, Doc Adams stood up and told them all to leave them alone. The room was abuzz with gossip and rumor. There was also the element of fear that had been present in those few days after the shooting. Nathan Burke had been right. Until word had spread that Dillon was no longer marshal and no longer in town, Dodge had seen a high number of men looking to earn a quick reputation. Now, he was back. Would the gunmen be back, too?

They were having one last cup of coffee when the new marshal appeared. Word had spread fast and he, too, was curious. Did he still have a job? Was Dillon planning to stay? He ignored the scowls of the doctor and the doctor and the polite coldness of the woman. "I just need to know where things stand," he said to Dillon.

Dillon shifted in his seat. "It's still your town," he said. "It will be until I can protect it again. I figure the fewer people who know my plans - even to where I am - the better. They won't come looking and they won't be a threat to innocent people. I'm not the marshal. I won't be in Dodge. Nothing's changed." The new man nodded. He understood but he didn't necessarily like the answer. Without another answer, he tipped his hat and left.

His breakfast companions were confused. He would be back but he was leaving again? When he picked up his coffee again, it was obvious they weren't going to get any answers soon. With a shrug, Adams decided to finish his cup as well. Kitty looked at them both but remained silent. When they had finished, true to his work, Adams paid for breakfast, grumbling all the while. He looked up at the big man and said, "Matt, before you leave, I've got something you'll need for your arm. Come on up to the office and I'll get it for you.

Dillon looked at Kitty a moment. "Sure, Doc. Kitty, I'll be by the Long Branch before I go." He gave her a slight nod. It was obvious that she was not happy. She watched the two men as they headed up the street and then turned to go back to the Long Branch, alone.

Back in Adams' office, Dillon did not take the seat offered to him, so the old man sat down to listen. "Doc, I've got to try - " he began. "- to get this arm in shape - to feel like I can wear a badge again." He paced as he talked. "I can't stay here but I can't be on the run either and I can't do it by myself."

It took a lot for him to admit that he needed help and Adams knew it. He rubbed his chin and finally spoke. "What do you intend to do?" he asked.

"I need to be close enough for help and still be away -" he said.

"Out of sight, out of mind, is that it?" Dillon nodded. After a few minutes of thinking, Adams had the answer. "I know just the place. Old Town."

Dillon nodded again. "That's what I was thinking. There's the old surveyor's cabin, near the creek. There's water. The cabin is in need of some work but it's solid and more importantly it's empty. There's cover and you can see anyone coming for a couple of miles.

"Well," said Adams, "Festus would be happy to help but I think you'd die from his coffee -"

" No," he said, shaking his head. No one can stay and I don't even want Kitty to know

- it wouldn't take long for people to figure it out. It's risky the way it will be. I'm taking a mule with supplies out this afternoon and then heading out of town in the opposite direction for a day before swinging around to Old Town. I figure I'll be there in about three days."

"Well it just so happens that I'm due to make a trip out that way at the end of the week," Adams said. "Gonna do some fishin'." They both knew that there was more than a chance that the marshal would never reach Old Town. Adams, however, saw it as the only solution acceptable. He was determined to make it work.

Later that afternoon, mule and supplies in hand, Dillon stopped by the Long Branch as he had promised. The saloon was empty except for Sam and Kitty. She sat in the back playing solitaire. He nodded a greeting to Sam and headed over to her table. She did not pause in her card playing nor offer him a seat. "You ready to leave again?" she asked, studying her play. She moved a black five, then turned up an ace of clubs.

"Yes," he said. "You know I can't stay."

She raised her eyes to his. They flashed with anger and hurt.

"No," she said sharply. "I don't _know_ you can't stay. What I _know_ is that two weeks ago you rode out when you could barely sit on your horse and the people of Dodge weren't good enough to help you. Now, I _know_ you're back, you've got a U.S. Marshal and two deputies to help you and you still won't let anyone raise a finger let alone a gun to defend you." She raked up the cards and shuffled them roughly.

It was a no-win situation for him. He sighed softly and turned to go. "I'll be back -"

"-Don't say it, Matt. Maybe you'll be back. Maybe we'll all find out that a two-bit gunman shot you down in a street somewhere in the out of town papers." She was furious and close to tears but she refused to look up from her newly dealt game.

"Good bye, Kitty," he said quietly and he turned and walked out to his horse and mule. Carefully, he mounted his horse, a task that had gotten easier with practice, and he headed out of Dodge.

Three days later, he arrived at Old Town. Old Town, Old Dodge City, had been abandoned for years. Its buildings were slowly falling victim to Kansas weather and sodbusters in search of lumber. Originally intended as the railhead, Old Town lost favor with the railroad. The route was changed; the town was bypassed and rebuilt in its current location. Even the Army moved its outpost to the newly constructed Fort Dodge. The new Dodge City found itself at the rail terminus, shipping buffalo hides then beef cattle. She quickly became known as the wickedest little city in the West. Almost as quickly, law and order came to town to that as the hide market dried up and the rails pushed farther west, Dodge City survived and even thrived.

There had been no sign in life neither in Old Town nor at the surveyor's cabin when Dillon had ridden through on his way back to Dodge. Exactly who owned the land and building was tangled in legal documents lost somewhere in the railroad's archives. The cabin, the first structure to be built, enjoyed the best location. Sitting on a wooded hill, the flat plain was viewable in all directions. The small creek was fed by a clear spring. There was even a lean-to, by now more leaning than to for the horse and mule.

Dillon, who had given up the sling on his arm once he was out of Doc Adam's sight, maneuvered much better both on and off his horse than he had during his brief visit to Dodge. It was a good thing. The cabin was in desperate need of an airing and although his arm was of little use, his balance was better. He spent the rest of the day storing his few supplies and making the cabin habitable. It was light work but he still tired easily. As the sun set, he eased into his bed and slept a dreamless sleep.

The next morning found him stiff but rested. After a simple breakfast, he began to develop a routine that would fill the next several weeks. Dry practice with his left hand, working on speed and quickness, then firing some live shots for accuracy. With his right hand, he started with simple tasks like gripping a cup or a fork, then picking up small objects. To strengthen his arm, he used the crank on the well. At first, he could barely wrap his fingers around the rough crank but each day, his grip improved. When he could grip it, he began to try to turn it. Again, progress was slow and painful but eventually, the crank turned and much later, the empty bucket came up to the mouth of the well.

He was also not alone. His friends couldn't keep this particular secret from one another. Doc Adams kept check on his progress, chiding him for pushing things too quickly but pleased at his progress. He couldn't tell him much about Kitty; it was better to avoid her. She could read the old man like a book and would know if he was hiding something from her. When she finally cornered him, he claimed that he needed some time off. That immediately struck a wrong note with Kitty. Doc had never admitted to needing time off. Something was in the wind. She enlisted Festus to follow the old man. Festus, only to eager to get away from the new marshal gladly went. It took both Dillon and Adams to convince him to return to Dodge but he finally did go. His first stop was, of course, the Long Branch.

Kitty listened with mixed emotions to Festus as he regaled her with his adventure and discovery. He himself was greatly relieved that the marshal was still in one piece and on the mend. His feeling, bruised by the secret, were quick to recover in the plan he's worked out for visiting the cabin, the routes he'd take, the excuses he'd make. She had meant every word that she had said the day Dillon left but she'd come to regret her anger. Things could happen too suddenly. It was best not to leave things in such a way that regret could step in. Regret made a rough partner.

And, sure enough, a few days later, she was absent from the Long Branch. "You told her, didn't you," accused Adams when he and Festus had reached the street after find her gone.

"Course I tolt her," said Festus. "Who'n the sam hill dya think sent me trailin' after ya?" He hmphed and strode away from the old man. Adams watched his retreating figure and noticed a new spring in his step. There was a man with a mission, he thought to himself. Festus had been positively morose since Dillon's departure but the deputy's sunny mood had returned. Adams had to admit feeling better as well.

Dillon was just lowering the half-filled bucket back into the well when he saw the approaching buggy. Casually, he checked his gunbelt with his left hand and then he eased around the corner of the cabin. A few minutes later, he stepped out. He knew both the rig and the driver.

"Hello, Kitty," he said. He was glad to see her but dismayed that she too knew where he was. Word was spreading and he didn't feel ready to return to Dodge.

She'd pulled the horse to a stop in the shade. "Hello, Matt."

He couldn't read her mood by her tone so he decided to wait her out. She started to gather her skirts to get down from the seat. Quickly, he stepped to her side and used both hands to help her down. She was surprised; he really was stronger. There was a weakness - she could feel it in the way he held her - but he could use the arm. She smoothed her skirt and hair and accepted his invitation into the cabin.

Surveying the simply furnished room, she smiled. "Well, you've certainly made yourself a home."

"It's not fancy, but it's nearly served its purpose."

She looked at him questioningly. "It has? Does this mean you're coming back to town soon?"

He slowly rubbed his right elbow. "I've been practicing. I'm not what I was but maybe it will do for now until next summer when the herds arrive." He shifted uncomfortably. "Kitty, I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was - it's just that -"

She shook her head. "I was wrong, too," she admitted. "I was just so damn mad that you were leaving when - when I'd -you'd just come back -"

"I couldn't put Dodge at risk." He looked hard at her. I couldn't put you at risk, he said in his mind. "I couldn't protect Dodge any more that I could protect myself. A lot of innocent people could have been hurt or killed trying to protect me. I just couldn't let that happen."

Of course not, she thought swiftly to herself. Not after you've given nineteen years to Dodge City. Not after you've been shot full of holes. And she realized, again, that Matt Dillon was already married - to his badge, his job, to the Queen of the West and both she and what they had would always come second. She smiled again. "Of course not," she said aloud. She took his right hand in hers. "You'll be back soon?'

He paused before answering, puzzled that he was not getting an argument. He needed the time alone but now that she knew, it would be harder for both of them to stay away. He thought of the buggy ride from Dodge to Old Town. "Soon," he said at last.

"Good. Festus'll be glad. The new marshal is -uh - 'too persnickety' for your deputy." They both laughed. "Everyone wants you back, Matt,"

"I want to come back, Kitty." He squeezed her hand and then released it. "It won't be long."

"Come by the Long Branch. I'll buy you a beer." She offered.

He smiled and nodded. "By golly, it's a date."

He helped her up on to her buggy and watched as she drove the horse out of sight.

Near the end of the next week, Dillon appeared again in Dodge at the Long Branch where a light still burned. They exchanged greetings. She was pleased to see how fit he looked. Six months ago, he had stood in the door pale and worn. Tonight he looked his old self except for the gunbelt worn on the left side and the missing badge. They shared beers and small talk for an hour or so and then he followed her upstairs. It was too late to rouse Howie. He'd get his badge and office back in the morning.

The new marshal wasted no time packing or arranging transportation. Dillon accompanied him to the stage depot. "You'll make do with that left-handed draw?" he asked before stepping on the stage.

"I'll have to," said Dillon. "Thanks again."

"I hate to say it, but I'm not sad to be going." Dillon looked at him curiously. "I tell you, Matt, Dodge City is the unfriendliest town I've ever been in." And with that the stage door closed. The driver cracked the whip. The marshal watched the stage as it rumbled down the street, a puzzled frown on his face. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and headed to Doc's office to see if he wanted to go to breakfast.

The winter was uneventful in Dodge. The last of the herds had shipped out without any more trouble than the usual saloon brawl. Festus and Newly had practically hovered over the marshal, making sure that he was never without one or the other of them. Dillon continued to practice with his left hand but he worked the right one harder than ever. He knew reputation carried a man so far; at some point, it had to be proven. He was determined to be ready.

The saloon was empty. It was late. She sat alone, totaling the evening's receipts, engrossed in her work yet not really caring at the same time. It had to be done; she was doing it. For the past week, she had done the same task and night after night, she listened for a familiar step on the boardwalk. Night after night, she didn't hear it.

She poured herself a drink and stared numbly at the amber liquid. Idly, she wondered if the dead felt regret. She drank down the fiery liquid without pause, then stoppered and replaced the bottle. She gathered her account books and climbed the stairs one last time, black skirt held high.

Ten days ago, four men had come to Dodge. They had spent the afternoon at the Long Branch quietly nursing nothing stronger than beer. From time to time, one or even two had left then returned. They played a little stud; one even tipped his hat for a nap. Towards dark, they had spoken of going to one of the cheaper hotels and had left without incident and very little notice.

It had been quiet early spring evening. There was just enough of a nip in the air to make people hurry their walk. The saloon was warm and the crowd wasn't too bad for the middle of the week. Doc Adams had come and gone, complaining that with Festus gone delivering papers, there was no point in working up a good argument. The marshal had stopped by on his rounds but had declined her offer of a beer. "Where's your shadow?" she teased noticing that Newly was nowhere in sight.

He cautiously looked over his shoulder and then gave her a wink and a smile. "I think I lost him," he said, "down at Mr. Lathrop's. There was a pretty girl who needed some help with her packages."

"Oh," she said knowingly. "I guess he had a higher duty."

"Under protest and under orders," said Dillon in defense of his deputy. "It feels good to be alone."

She arched her brows. "Thanks." He winced a little at her tone but when he looked, she was smiling. "I know what you mean."

"I'd better go before he catches up." He resettled his had. "I'll be by later." She nodded and watched as he left the saloon, then turned to pick up the tray of beers that Floyd had just drawn.

Business as usual was interrupted about an hour later. With the inner doors closed to keep out the cold, no one knew Burke was coming until he burst into the room. "Miss Kitty! -" he was gasping for air. "Doc says for you to come now - the depot -" He bent over with his hands on his knees.

Without a word, she rushed out into the night. Several followed including Burke who was so close on her heels that he nearly ran her down when she stopped suddenly. At the sight, her hand went to her throat. She couldn't breathe very well herself.

There, just inside the glow of the depot's night lamp, Adams knelt beside the marshal's body. Newly O'Brien, blood running down his face sat with Dillon's head propped against his knees. She recovered and rushed to them and knelt beside him as well.

"Miss Kitty -" said Newly brokenly. "I never even saw them - two of them jumped me - I - I heard them call for the marshal - they shot him, Miss Kitty. They shot him down in cold blood." She looked at the young man who was in tears. Absently, she noticed that the man's gun was still in its left handed holster.

"It's all right, Newly," she said reassuringly but she did not believe it. Dillon's shirt was soaking rapidly with blood and his breathing was ragged, even bubbling. Adams had not spoken. They'd killed him. Shot through the lungs and abdomen, the marshal would quickly drown in his own blood if he didn't bleed to death first. The old man removed his coat and covered the wounded man's chest. He bowed his head. She looked at Adams, puzzled that he's given no orders, no reassurance. "Doc?" she asked.

He did not immediately acknowledge her. "Matt," he said firmly. "Matt, can you hear me?" Dillon moaned and then coughed weakly.

She took his hand. "Matt?…Matt, it's me, Kitty." Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

He moved his head slightly and then opened his eyes. "Kitty," he said weakly. He look confused when his arms failed to push himself upright. He coughed again, grimacing, and focused on Adams. "Doc….Newly….is he…?"

Adams wiped his face and pulled off his glasses. "Newly's fine, Matt. He's got a headache, that's all. Now, I want you to rest easy for a few minutes -" It broke his heart to say it. He looked his friend in the eye. "Matt…" his voice choked, "there's nothing I can do for you, Matt."

"The dying man nodded slightly and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he saw tears running down her face. Weakly, he reached up and gently brushed them away. She caught his hand and held it to her cheek. "Kitty…I…" he swallowed hard but blood still appeared at the corner of his mouth to trickle down his face.

She wiped the blood away with her skirt and smiled at him. "I know, Cowboy…I've always known."

He gave her a half smile that faded as the light left his eyes. Adams gently took his hand from her cheek and felt for a pulse. He listened for long minutes for a heartbeat. And with a sob, he gently pulled his coat up to cover the still face. Stiffly, he got to his feet and then helped her to stand. Together they left the light with its prying eyes in favor of the privacy of the night.

Two days later, Dodge City buried her marshal, not on Boot Hill, but in a quiet spot near Silver Creek. Most of the town turned out to watch the hearse leave town; the streets were filled with people, heads bowed and bared in respectful silence. That same respect kept them in Dodge so that only those closest to the marshal could make the final journey with him.

She had spent those two days packing and extending offers on the Long Branch. Once, she had closed its doors and left Dodge City for the wrong reasons. Now there were no reasons not to. An old friend would "temporarily" run the place. She arranged a train ticket to New Orleans. And this time, not even Festus considered asking her to stay.

The morning her train was scheduled to leave, Newly and Festus appeared to drive her bags to the depot. It had been an equally hard week for the deputies. Added to the loss of their friend was the frustrating task of finding his killers. A posse had scoured Dodge City and the surrounding countryside and had found no sign of the killers. Festus had sworn to find them and had taken time from the hunt only to bury his friend and to see another one leave for the last time. Newly now wore the marshal's badge. They loaded the last of her bags. She hugged Newly. "Don't let it be your life, Newly," she said. "Promise." Newly could only nod. She took Festus's hand. "Thank you, Festus." She kissed his whiskered cheek.

He blinked back tears. "Take care, Miz Kitty," he said in a choking voice and then, roughly to Newly, "Let's go get these here bags loaded, Newly." He climbed aboard, waited for Newly to get seated and then slapped the horse with the reins.

She watched them go then turned and was startled to see Doc Adams. The old man looked his age. He needed sleep and a shave. His suit was more wrinkled than usual. "I thought I'd walk you to the depot, Kitty." He offered her his arm and together they headed for the train.

They walked in silence, each lost in memories, some shared, some private. Every building and street seemed to shout something at her as she walked past. Sometimes, the voice was pleasant, even happy; many times, it was not. And each memory was now darkened for all time with death, tainted with regret over choices made and paths taken.

"Too many ghosts, Doc," she said, breaking the silence at last. A long moment passed. "What will I do without him?"

He tugged his ear and then rested his hand on her shoulder. "I don't know, Kitty," he said at last. "But you're not alone. We'll be here when you're ready." He wiped his nose on his kerchief.

She could always come back.

Standing there, waiting on the train, she could not think of a single reason why she should.


End file.
